


Betty Marwick

by amusedrhyme (lazarus_girl)



Series: A Patch of Blue [3]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-10-11 20:44:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20552435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/amusedrhyme
Summary: Valerie dedicates her day off to caring for the Marwick family, but not before she’s made sure that she’s there to take care of Lucille too.“Next to her is where you should be.”





	Betty Marwick

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cassiopeiasara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassiopeiasara/gifts).

> Sorry for delay posting this one. I hope it was worth the wait!

This is supposed to be your day off.

Usually, you’d still be in bed, sneaking in an extra hour of sleep before you go out for the day. It’s never any longer; guilt gets you well before laziness ever could. You can take the girl out of the Army, but you can never take the Army out of the girl. The discipline – punctuality, cleanliness, orderliness – has never really left you. You take your time over breakfast, eating it slower than you ever do when on call, when it’s barely two sips of tea and a corner of toast before the phone goes. 

Some days, you take longer getting ready, going back and forth between outfits, sitting and applying a full face of make-up, which Phyllis never allows when you’re in uniform. Even your mascara and eyeliner is pushing it. Others, you wait until everyone has gone, and Nonnatus is quiet, to lie in the bath for an indulgent soak while you read. Really, it should be something proper, like Austen or the Brontës, but mostly, you find yourself drawn to the trashy romance novels Trixie is always picking up from the airport on her travels. They’re almost always _terrible_and the titles are even worse, like that ridiculous _Caribbean Kisses_ that Sister Monica Joan, Sister Winifred, and Mrs Turner became so absurdly fascinated with. But, you can’t help it either, they _are_ fascinating. It’s nice to read something where falling in love or just being loved, doesn’t feel anywhere near as complicated as it has been for you. They’re easy, and light, and fun. When so much of your work is neither easy, light, nor fun, they make for an attractive escape. 

None of that today though. You’re up with the lark, as they say. 

Sister Julienne’s words regarding Betty are still very much on your mind. Your job doesn’t end when the baby’s born, that’s not how you do things at Nonnatus. That’s not how things are done in Poplar either. Betty and little Kirk are different though, you’ve taken them to your heart. You hate to see Betty struggling, not thinking herself fit to take care of Kirk through all that’s to come. It won’t be easy for her by any means, you know that. As much as you’d like to, you can’t wave a magic wand, but you can give her those _“few hours of peace and quiet”_ that Sister Julienne talked about. 

You all know how restorative someone helping, someone taking _care_ can truly be.

Betty and baby Kirk have a long road ahead, but if you can make some of these difficult, faltering early steps a little easier then why not? This isn’t really about giving up your time or even sacrificing it, because you don’t see this as losing anything. Neither does anyone else. Lucille understood immediately, when you sat in the kitchen with her last night, with tea and biscuits, talking over how best you could help. You were there to keep her company during the night shift, keep her mind ticking over and stave off sleep with tea and biscuits. She has to be ready at any moment of course, but you’ve come to love those night-time chats, cherish them even. Maybe it’s the softer way Lucille speaks. Maybe it’s the way her seat at the table moves progressively closer to yours. Maybe it’s because you can just look, and listen and _be_, and everything about it seems right. 

Next to her is where you should be.

You talk about the same things you do upstairs, with Trixie’s records on, passing a cigarette between you, poring over magazines. But, it’s different at night, alone in the kitchen. It feels different. Special. Like you’re closer somehow. Like you’re the only people in the world. Like some kind of veil has fallen or lifted, you’re not sure.

You watch her now in the morning light, standing diligently by the kettle and waiting for it to boil. That cup of tea is for you, as is the toast that pops up, right when Lucille expects it to. She makes you one every day. She knows exactly how you like it. Just a drop of milk and a touch of sugar. Toast just that right shade of golden with more butter than you really should. Without fail, there’s tea and toast of some sort waiting for you. Even in bed, when you’re too tired or too ill to come down. It started when she was worried about you going off on an emergency call on an empty stomach. Now, it's just habit. _“I like to,” _she’d said, sweetly, one day when you asked her about it. _“Someone has to take care of you, too.”_You ignored the slight flush of her cheeks when she said it. You ignored the way it made your heart beat a little faster when you heard it. On days when you’re awake first, you do the same for her; all with the same practiced ease. Jam on her toast, all the way to the edge. Tea brewed longer, splash of milk, no sugar. _“Sweet enough, aren’t ya?” _you’d dared to say once, as you stirred the freshly poured cup, adding a little wink that made her blush. Risky? Yes. Cheeky? A little. But, that’s how you can be. That’s how you are. Easy. Natural. It made her smile in that sweet, shy way she only seems to for you.

This morning, you wanted to be the one to set up your little ritual, but she’s beaten you. Again. Sometimes, you imagine yourselves together in a flat somewhere, cycling back to Nonnatus for work. Every morning could be like this. You could have Trixie and Phyllis round for dinner parties. Lucille’s church friends too. You want to get to know them better without being in the constant state of interruption that is living at Nonnatus. Where the walls have ears. You’ve gotten close to asking Lucille about it, just floating the idea at least, because you can see it now, she’s starting to hanker for something. You are too. There’s an energy about the world that wasn’t there before. Everything seems new and exciting. Everything seems possible or, at least, less impossible for women. Things are changing.

The Poplar you grew up in is changing, rapidly, day-by-day. For the good. For the better. 

But, then you think it might be too much, just to tear Lucille away from Nonnatus, where she’s settled, happy, accepted, and supported. From the place she thinks of us home. What right do you have to challenge that? What right do you have ask her to give all that up? It’s selfish. It’s just so you can live out some fantasy like those girls you see on the news when they talk about the burgeoning scene of ‘Swinging London’ with some posh newscaster talking to those bright, brilliant young women like they’re from another planet, just because they’re part of that different, new world that’s leaving him and his ilk behind. 

“Mornin’” you say, finally pushing off the doorframe and making yourself known. There’s only so long you can do this before the illusion is shattered with alarm clocks, creaky floorboards, and the rushing whirr of Trixie’s hairdryer.

Nonnatus’ very own dawn chorus. 

“You’re up and about early!” She turns, and there it is. That glorious, bright smile that you’ve grown so accustomed to greeting you.

“Cheeky!” you cross the kitchen quickly, throwing your coat over the nearest chair, hopping up on the worktop next to her instead of sitting down.

“Phyllis won’t like you sittin’ up there,” she singsongs, sweetly, passing you the freshly brewed cup of tea. 

Phyllis hates it. Thinks it unhygienic and _“altogether unnecessary, when there’s a perfectly good chair close by.”_

“Thank you.” You pause to take a sip. “Well, _I _like it here. And, she can’t see me yet.”

“I’ll remind you of that in a few minutes, Nurse Dyer, when she’s given you chapter and verse of our hygiene and cleanliness regimen!” she replies, playful.

You both laugh a little. Together. You like when she lets go. When there’s just a little mischief in the light of those beautiful, _beautiful _eyes of hers.

“You look nice,” she comments, after a moment glancing up from her toast buttering. “I like those check trousers.”

She says this to you as if you don’t know, but you do. You know full well. She was there when you bought them, after all. Watching you in the mirror. Trixie’s exclamations about you having a _“bottom like a peach!” _and that you _“must absolutely buy them, this minute!” _went right over your head. You heard them, and didn’t all at the same time. Lucille was far too transfixing and far too unreadable, wearing an expression that’s grown familiar, but no less intelligible.

“I was thinking of popping in to help Betty,” you offer, looking at her over the top of your cup and taking another sip. It’s a good answer. Practical. Less telling than ‘I wore them because I know you like them.’ 

“Val, it’s your day off!” she reminds you, with a pointed look as she sets the toast down next to you, as if it were needed. As if being up and dressed before seven wasn’t enough of a signal. _Val_. That’s a new thing. You like it. You were Nurse Dyer for all of five seconds upon meeting. Ever since, you’ve been Valerie, but the fact she’s changed now, that she calls you Val most of the time, seems significant, despite the fact everyone else you know does it too.

“I know, but she’s got such a lot on her plate. Even getting those kids round a table for breakfast is like trying to herd cats!” you counter, taking a bite of toast. “I thought trousers might be better for catching cheeky little Marwicks!” Out of habit, you push the plate toward her, motioning for her to take the other slice. 

“That’s for you,” she says, with a smile.

“And _I _want to share. Odds on that phone’ll go, and you’ll get nothing.” 

“Alright, alright. Fine,” she concedes, taking an exaggerated bite. “Happy?”

“Someone has to take care of you, too,” is all you offer in reply, saying her very own words back at her. On the counter, you move your hand closer to hers. You could almost touch, but not quite.

“I’m glad it’s you,” she says softly, and her fingers lace with yours. 

You want to take her hand. You want to kiss her and it’s getting harder and harder to ignore. Not on the cheek or the temple. A real kiss. 

You look at each other for what feels like a long time. You could say it now. Give voice to all these thoughts and hopes and feelings and _love_. Now. Right now. It’d be so easy, and yet, terrifyingly difficult, and you’d stumble and stutter over the truths like you did over reading aloud as a child at school.

“I should … Betty … the kids …” it comes out in strange fragments as it dawns on you that you can’t really stay like this. 

A slow reminder of the real world. Of things that may and may never be.

“I know.”

There’s a sadness to her voice that’s become familiar too, and she moves her hand away.

“I need to … ” Lucille replies, distracted, rushing off. “I’ll … be back.”

“Lu,” you call, hopping back off the counter, tea and toast forgotten.

She’s racing up the stairs before you’ve even crossed the kitchen. You’ve made a mistake. Not with the words or the touching but your reaction to it. She gave a little more, came that little bit closer to crossing the line, and then, you were the one stupid enough to remind her the line was there. You’ll be kicking yourself for weeks over this. 

Idiot.

How long can you play this game of seesaw? Up and down, stop and go, push forward, push back. You’re not sure anymore. Neither is Lucille. You know that now. That flickering uncertainty in her eyes whenever she dares to be bolder isn’t so flickering. You know all too well what it means to not know who you really are or what you’re doing, stumbling in the dark, but it’s doubly,_triply_difficult for Lucille. You put your coat on, resigned to the fact that whatever it was that just happened was significant enough for her to need distance between you, and you have to respect that.

You don’t want to push too hard or expect too much. 

In her absence, you pace, and wonder, and worry, barely saying a word to Sister Hilda when she pops her head in and waves good morning before rushing to the phone. Your coat goes on and off twice more, and you debate leaving without saying anything else at all to Lucille. It seems you’ve said enough. When she reappears a few agonising moments later, you want to ask if she’s OK. You want to tell her that it’ll be OK, that whatever she’s feeling is OK too, but you don’t. You just stand there, hands in your coat pockets fiddling with the lining. Now, the uncertainty is yours. 

“Lucille,” you begin, stepping closer to her. You have no idea what comes next.

“I got this for baby Kirk,” she says, ignoring your concern, wilfully or otherwise. She reveals a teddy from behind her back with a flourish and a shy smile.

This is a negotiation of a kind. You know this too. She doesn’t want you to comment. She doesn’t want you to talk. 

You can’t ask, because she can’t answer. 

“It’s as big as he is!” You laugh a little as you take it from her, and you see her whole body relax. You can almost feel the sigh of relief.

“It’s not silly is it? Betty won’t mind?”

“Course not!” you reply, all too loudly for the hour. 

“I couldn’t bear his birth not being marked in some way.” She glances up at you, shy again. “And you said it yourself, Betty’s got so much on her plate.”

“It’s lovely of you. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“I wish I could help more than this,” she looks down at the teddy and back to you. “We did deliver him after all.”

“Quite the team as I remember,” you add, hoping to reassure. 

“Give that precious little one a hug for me.”

Before you can say yes or anything like it, Lucille puts her arms around you. It takes you a moment to react, to not freeze and not stiffen when all you want to do is give. 

And then, you do, leaning in to her, keeping hold of the teddy. Unable to resist, you close your eyes, breathing her in. You shouldn’t, you really shouldn’t but you can’t help it. She holds you for too long, and you know now. This isn’t for little Kirk, it’s for you. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, barely above a whisper, when she pulls away, and you have no idea what she’s sorry for. 

She sounds as afraid as you feel.

Next to her is where you should be.

You want to say so. You want to tell her. Just like Doris Day and that _bloody _secret love she’s so enamoured with. 

There are no high hills in Poplar and it’s too late for daffodils.

“Good lord, are you going to the Marwicks’ dressed like that?”

And, then it’s over, because Trixie’s there. Bright and breezy Trixie who has no idea and perhaps every idea of what she’s walked in on.

“I think she looks very nice,” Lucille comments, with none of the waver or the fear you heard before. She passes you back towards the kitchen table, your fingertips brushing as she goes. The kettle goes back on to boil.

“Exactly!” Trixie exclaims. “Keith will have a heart attack! You’re _quite_ the young Mods dream, darling.”

Trixie stands there a moment, regarding you, hand on her hip, and you flush a little at the compliment. You’ve never been short of attention, male or otherwise, but it always means more when it comes from women. Keith Marwick, you can brush off. Trixie, a little more difficult, but she seems determined to boost your ego. Lucille? Never. You wish you could live in Trixie’s world. You wish you could just say what she does, and do what she does and never have it mean a thing. But, you don’t and you can’t. That’s why when she and Lucille are swooning over Sidney Poitier and Omar Sharif, you don’t _dare_tell them how you’ve been a little bit in love with Julie Christie ever since you all saw _Billy Liar_.

“He’ll get a clip round the ear if he tries his luck, the cheeky sod!” you reply, without thinking. 

“Quite right!” Lucille and Trixie say, almost in unison.

Now you’re all laughing, trying and failing to rein it in. Before long, Phyllis or Sister Monica Joan will be in to investigate. Sound carries, and Sister Monica Joan in particular loves to eavesdrop. 

You wonder what she’s heard of your and Lucille’s chats sometimes. If you’ve made her complicit in your secret – one that’s becoming harder and harder to keep.

“And who’s this handsome little chap?” Trixie asks, gesturing to the teddy and tapping his nose.

“It’s a present for Kirk, Lucille got him,” you turn back toward her, and move the bear’s arm so he waves at her, and she smiles.

“Oh, you’re such a sweetheart!” Trixie sits down next to her at the table, patting her shoulder affectionately, before reaching for her cigarettes. “How kind.”

“Kirk’s a darling little thing, I couldn’t not.”

You turn to Lucille, looking at her pointedly. “See.” 

Lucille shakes her head, smiling. “Off with you, Valerie Dyer!” She shoos you away, and her smile is even brighter.

“Yes, do go on, you’re making us all look bad at an unreasonable hour!” Trixie waves you away dramatically, as you make a show of shielding teddy from her cigarette smoke while you fetch your bag and pop him inside.

It makes Lucille laugh, and everything feels fine again. Everything feels like it should.

You turn away, headed for the door. You’re almost there when you remember. Before all this with Betty, you promised Lucille lunch, as is your tradition on Tuesdays (and most days if you happen to be in the right place at the right time, truth be told). There will be no sneaking to the pictures for the afternoon matinee, not today; she has to help Dr Turner at clinic in Mrs Turner’s stead. You’re worried about all these double shifts, and you’ve told her so, but she insists it’s fine. It’s not fine. You won’t have it. It’s a bad habit she started when Clarice Millgrove needed extra help and Sister Frances needed time to settle in. You’ll talk to Trixie tonight; it’s been time enough. 

They look so different together at the table. There’s a gap between them. Lucille’s not close enough to Trixie for their shoulders to touch, not like with you. The way she holds herself is entirely different. 

“Lu,” you call, and wait for her to look up. “Lunch after I’ve sorted Betty out?”

She turns in her chair. “You won’t be back before three and you know it!”

That’s true. Once you’ve packed Keith off with a task to take some of the load from Betty, seen the kids out the door to school, settled Kirk, and had a long overdue chat with Betty, the day will be half over.

“Late lunch then?” you offer, and she smiles.

“I can’t stomach one more of Mrs B’s fish paste sandwiches!” 

Trixie groans in agreement. “A lovely woman, but I think I’ll turn into one of those if I so much as _look_ at another.”

“You, me, fish and chips on the dock?” you offer, with a little wink. She blushes.

“Assuming there’s no emergencies, and Mrs Johnson doesn’t go into labour,” she nods. There’s that shyness again. 

“Where’s my fish and chips?” Trixie cries, incredulously. 

“You can buy your bloody own!”

“Charming that, Lucille, isn’t it?!” is all Trixie says, nudging Lucille’s elbow.

“She makes up for it other ways!” 

And, there’s the other side of Lucille. The side you’re seeing more and more of. Relaxed, content, confident, teasing you with the kind of warmth that can only come with being close to someone You wish you knew how to make her stay. How you could calm that fear and anxiousness you see in her and feel in yourself.

“Oi!” you exclaim, pointing at her. “I’m not defending you from the seagulls this time.” 

“And they say chivalry’s dead!” Trixie looks back at you, smiling. Half fond, half knowing. You’ve seen it before, whenever she gets letters or postcards from Patsy and Delia, separate from the general dispatches sent on birthdays or at Easter and Christmas. You’ve never asked her what they say, it didn’t feel right to, but Trixie has always spoken so highly of them, remarked how similar you are to Patsy sometimes.

You push down the fear that comes with thinking what Trixie sees as similar.

She saw more than she’s letting on. She knows so much more than she’s letting on.

She knows how to negotiate too. When not to speak, when not to ask because you can’t answer either.

“After three then, come over to the clinic,” Lucille answers. The playfulness is gone, but that soft, sweet look in her eye, like she’s searching you for those answers, is still there.

“It’s a date,” you say, without realising. You really didn’t mean to. For a moment, you hold your breath, frozen to the spot. “A promise.” you correct, just quick enough.

“Give my love to Betty and the baby,” is all she says. If you weren’t looking at her, those words word tell a very different story.

“Of course.”

That’s the only reply you can give. For the moment at least.

Somewhere inside, a little hope sparks. That hope keeps you going for the day. It makes you skip down the steps of Nonnatus two at a time. It makes you peddle to the Marwicks’ a little faster, weaving through the Poplar streets you know so well, nodding and smiling at everyone who greets you as you pass. That hope is there all through your time with Betty. The spark grows to a flame, and then a fire. It’s stoked, raging while you feed Kirk; play with Lynette, brushing the hair of her doll, making hers look the same; and help Betty with a neverending stream of washing, so she can have nap before the other children descend. 

_A promise_, that’s what you told Lucille. 

It is, but it’s so much more than that. It’s so much more than fish and chips on the docks, watching the afternoon boats come in, and praying the rain will hold off. You can see it so clearly, even though you won’t leave for another hour yet, when Kirk is down for a nap of his own. You’ll be giddy with nerves, palms sweating when you go into the clinic, greeted warmly by Miss Higgins with a _“Good afternoon, Nurse Dyer.” _Dr Turner, Sister Hilda and Sister Frances will wave their hellos, and you’ll get umpteen babies shoved into your field of vision when you see familiar faces in the long snaking line of the weighing cue. It’ll take all your will not to shrug off your coat and help Sister Frances. Then, Lucille will spot you from her vantage in the kitchen and wave. Just like always. Just like always, it’ll make your heart leap into your throat, filling with feelings, with adoration, and a kind of love you’ve never felt for anyone else.

Loving her doesn’t seem so foolish now. It doesn’t seem so futile either. It seems possible. It feels real.

For the first time, you think Lucille feels that way too.


End file.
